Page 119 of Things We Fake
Sue
I hadn’t taken an afternoon nap in years, but today I needed one. I woke up to the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, where my father had spent hours painting stars that shone in the darkness, under the careful directions of my six-year-old-self. I had been overly critical even back then.
I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my teeth. The bathroom light in my parents’ house was brutal, the kind that shows every freckle and pore—and apparently, old lettering. I leaned closer to the mirror, staring at my sleep shirt. For the first time since I had this raggedy old thing, the squiggly wording on the front was clear as daylight.
“Love is real.”
Three words, simple, and weirdly obvious. But I stared at them as though they were a prophecy. Maybe I’d just never been ready to believe them before.
A smile lingered on my face as I went downstairs, walking through the quiet house. I could imagine Michelle taking one of the many naps the baby demanded. My mom was probably in the kitchen, andPaul was likely doing some work in the cellar. He’d always been a hard worker, and not even holidays like Easter stopped him.
I went outside to enjoy the fresh air. Evening had fallen over Warwick. Spring was truly here. I sensed it in the scent of damp earth and fresh grass. The sky stretched wide above me, streaked with the last hues of sunset. The white ribbon of a plane moved slowly across the sky, flying to some unknown destination. Maybe to Italy, that far away land my father had come from, but which I had never visited.
A gentle breeze tugged at my hair. The air had cooled, carrying with it the faint hum of insects and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the woods beyond the vineyard.
For the first time in a long time, I stood here not as an outsider returning to a place that no longer fit, but as a woman reconnecting with something she had lost.
The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I made my way toward the back of the house, to the sea of gnarled vines, still bare but brimming with potential. I wrapped my arms around myself, breathing in deeply, letting the quiet settle in my bones.
I hadn’t realized how much I had missed this place, the simplicity, the steadiness of the land, the way the vineyard whispered of patience and resilience. The way it had always waited for me, even when I had been too afraid to stay.
I found my father exactly where I knew he’d be—out by the vineyard, standing between the rows of dormant vines, hands tucked into the pockets of hisjacket as he surveyed his land with the pride and love of a king overseeing his kingdom.
For a moment I hesitated, watching him from the path. The last sunrays of the day cast long shadows over the rolling fields, painting the sky in shades of soft lavender and gold. This was the place he loved most in the world. And for years, I had convinced myself I didn’t belong here.
But I did. Maybe not forever, maybe not in the way my parents had always hoped, but a part of me would always belong to Warwick.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the dirt path and walked toward him.
“I thought I’d find you out here.” My voice broke the peaceful silence.
My father turned slightly, his lined face softening with a small smile. “And I thought you’d be inside, eating more tiramisu.”
I let out a short laugh. “Give me time.”
He chuckled, then turned his gaze back toward the vines. “It’s good to have you home,bambina. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “It’s good to be here, Papa.”
We stood in silence for a moment, the kind of comfortable quiet I had always loved about my dad. He never rushed to fill the space with words. He let them come when they were ready.
When I finally spoke, my voice was softer. “I wanted to talk to you.”
He nodded, waiting.
I took a breath, pushing past the uncertainty. “I made a mess of things.”
Dad exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving the vineyard. “Yes.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Wow. Not even going to sugarcoat it?”
“Would you expect me to?”
I sighed. “I guess not.”
There was another stretch of silence. My father had always been deliberate with his words. And when he finally spoke, his voice was steady.
“You’re not afraid to stand up for yourself anymore.”
